Her question irks me. Earlier this year, I’d asked myself plenty of times if he was the one, but that’s normal—it’s smart to make sure you’re making the right choice. I asked myself over and over if yoga was the right business for me before I launched my company. Natch, I’d do the same for marriage.
My mom scans my crew. “Do your friends think it makes sense to marry him?”
Ugh. Now she’s trying to throw me off via my friends?
Jillian cuts in firmly, handling Mom like she handles an out-of-line question from an unruly press gaggle. “We think Silvio is great.”
“We were just talking about what a sweetie he is,” Emerson adds. “How well he treats Katie.”
Skyler strides back into the suite at the tail end of that, water bottle filled and eyes curious.
My mom’s lips curve down. “Does he, though? Does he treat you how you deserve to be treated, honey?” She squeezes my shoulder again.
What is going on? Why the frick is my mother trying to dissuade me from getting married an hour before the ceremony?
“I don’t understand why you’re asking,” I say. Maybe my wedding reminds her of her own marital belly flops, the quartet of I dos that didn’t work out.
With a worried sigh, my mother clasps her hands, her fingers fidgety. “I’m concerned. That’s normal. It seems like it’s all happening too quickly. It seems like you might not really know him that well. Or yourself.”
What the hell? Just because we had a whirlwind courtship doesn’t mean I don’t know him well. I met him at a restaurant when our reservations were mixed up, and we dated for two months before he proposed.
Do I know him well?
As well as I need to.
I don’t believe you need to spend years with someone before you walk down the aisle.
Sometimes love happens quickly, even if you don’t like the same music, food, or wine.
Who cares about that stuff?
“That’s not an issue, Mom. I know he gives excellent foot rubs, he loves to snuggle, and he’ll probably take at least ten minutes to tie his bow tie even though he’s been watching YouTube tutorials for a week. His favorite book is The Little Prince, he loses track of time when he works on his murals, but he showers me with kisses when he comes home from his studio. And I feel like I know myself even better too, now that I’m thirty-five. I trust my instincts. I would love it if you would trust me too.”
By the end, my throat has tightened like a noose squeezing my neck, and tears sting my eyes but don’t fall. I can’t believe she’s doing this to me on my wedding day. Maybe this is another reason why I never imagined a wedding as a kid—because she’d find a way to ruin it with an ill-timed warning.
But screw it.
I’m not going to let her.
I suck in the threat of tears, swallow them down, and raise my chin. “I love Silvio and he loves me, but I appreciate your concern.”
“If you say so,” Mom says, letting the words hang in the air like a cloying, passive-aggressive-scented air freshener.
My friends step in like superheroes. Olive grabs my mother’s hand and escorts her out of the suite, and Jillian swoops in with a tissue. “Don’t let her get to you on your wedding day, or any day ever. She wants to be the center of attention, so she’s looking to make it all about her.”
I take the tissue and dab my cheek, but I don’t think a tear sneaked out. Ha. Take that, Mom.
“Coffee, yoga, and wine, coffee, yoga, and wine,” I say, repeating one of my favorite mantras as Olive returns, shutting the door loudly behind her.
“And tonight, there will be wine,” Olive declares.
Cheers erupt, and we sing an impromptu homage to wine.
That gets my mother out of my system.
When we’re done, Emerson sweeps a tinge more mascara on my lashes, I slide on some lip gloss, and Karissa declares my hair is fabulous. Skyler offers me a sip from the water bottle, but I decline.
“You’re ready,” Olive says.
I am so damn ready.
I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.
We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galleries.
No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art too, so it’s all good.
A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.
Time to go.
My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.
“Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.
Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.
“We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”
She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”
“I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say, as we reach the other restroom.
I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.
A man and a woman.
Sounding . . . worried.
They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.
“I tried,” the woman whispers.
“Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.
Ohhh.
That’s definitely a voice I know.
I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.
Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.
Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.
“So what now?” the woman whispers.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he says.
The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.
My skin crawls.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.
It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.
2
Harlan
“Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.
I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.
She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.
I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.
We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”